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It was an eve of autumn's holiest mood; The corn fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light, Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand, And all the winds slept soundly. Nature seem'd, In silent contemplation, to adore Its Maker. Now and then, the aged leaf Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground; And, as it fell, bade man think on his end. On vale and lake, on wood and mountain high, With pensive wing outspread, sat heavenly Thought, Conversing with itself. Vesper look'd forth, From out her western hermitage, and smiled; And up the east, unclouded, rode the moon With all her stars, gazing on earth intense, As if she saw some wonder walking there.

Such was the night, so lovely, still, serene,
When, by a hermit thorn that on the hill
Had seen a hundred flowery ages pass,
A damsel kneel'd to offer up her prayer,

prayer nightly offer'd, nightly heard.
This ancient thorn had been the meeting place
Of love, before his country's voice had call'd
The ardent youth to fields of honour far
Beyond the wave: and hither now repair'd,
Nightly, the maid, by God's all-seeing eye
Seen only, while she sought this boon alone-
Her lover's safety and his quick return.
In holy, humble attitude she kneelid,
And to her bosom, fair as moonbeam, press'd
One hand, the other lifted up to heaven.
Her eye, upturn’d, bright as the star of morn,
As violet meek, excessive ardour stream'd,
Wafting away her earnest heart to God.
Her voice, scarce utter'd, soft as zephyr sighs
On morning lily's cheek, though soft and low,
Yet heard in heaven, heard at the mercy-seat.
A tear-drop wander’d on her lovely face;
It was a tear of faith and holy fear,
Pure as the drops that hang at dawning time,
On yonder willows by the stream of life.
On her the Moon look'd steadfastly; the stars,
That circle nightly round the eternal throne,
Glanced down, well pleased; and Everlasting Love
Gave gracious audience to her prayer sincere.

AMONG the talented females who have distinguished themselves in the poetical world during the present day, Miss Mitford has justly obtained a conspicuous name. She is a daughter of Dr. Mitford, of Bertram House, near Reading. She was educated at Miss Rowdon's establishment, Brompton, and gave proofs of her poetical talent at a very early age. Her first work which she gave to the public, was a volume of Poems published in 1910. The popularity she acquired by attempt encouraged her to persevere, and ber next work, Christina, the Maid of the South Seas, a tale founded on the discovery of Pitcairn's Island, was published in the following year. This was succeeded by Watlington Hill, a descriptive poem, which appeared in 1012; and Narrative Poems on the Female Character in the various Reln. tions of Life, which was published the same year. A considerable perind then elapsed, during which she seemed to have retired from the literary world; but it was that she might appear with greater lustre in the character of a dra. matic writer, and her tragedies of Julian, Foscari, Rienzi, and Charles I., between 1823 and 1834, obtained for her a continually increasing reputation. They abound in tenderness of feeling and rich poetical description, so that they will always continue to obtain a distinguished rank as dramatic poems, however they may cease to captivate in representation.


Enter MELFI. D'Alba (Aside). He's pale, he hath been hurt.

(Aloud) My liege, Your vassals bid you welcome. Melfi.

Noble Signors,
I greet you well. Thanks, D'Alba. Good Leanti,
I joy to see those reverend locks. I never
Thought to behold a friendly face again.
And now I bring ye sorrow. Death hath been
Too busy; though the ripe and bearded ear
Escaped his sickle-but ye know the tale ;
Ye welcomed me as King; and I am spared
The painful repetition.

Valore. Sire, we know
From your own royal hand enough for joy
And sorrow: Death hath ta’en a goodly child
And spared a glorious man. But how

My Lord,
What wouldst thou more? Before I enter'd here
Messina's general voice had hail'd her Sovereign.
Lacks but the ceremonial form. ’T were best
The accustom'd pageant were perform'd even non,
Whilst ye, Sicilian Barons, strength and grace

Of our Sicilian realm, are here to pledge
Solemn allegiance, Say I sooth, Count D’Alba ?
D'Alba. In sooth, my liege, I know not. Seems

to me
One form is wanting. Our bereaved state
Stands like a widow, one eye dropping tears
For her lost lord, the other turn’d with siniles
On her new bridegroom. But even she, the Dame
Of Ephesus, the buxom relict, famed
For quick dispatch o’er every widow'd mate,
Woman, or state-even she, before she wed,
Saw the good man entomb’d. The funeral first ;
And then the Coronation.

Scoffer! Lords,
The corse is missing.

Calvi. Ha! Perchance he lives!
Melfi. He fell, I tell thee.

And the assassin ?

Escaped, when I too fell.

He! Why, my liege,
Was there but one ?

Melfi. What mean ye, Sirs ? Stand off. D'Alba. Cannot your Highness guess the murderer ? Melfi. Stand from about me, Lords! Dare ye to

front A King? What, do ye doubt me; you, or you ? Dare ye to doubt me? Dare


look a question
Into mine eyes ? Take thy gaze off! A King
Demands a modester regard. Now, Sirs,
What do ye seek? I tell ye, the fair boy
Fell underneath the assassin's sword; and I,
Wounded almost to death, am saved to prove
My subjects' faith, to punish, to reward,
To reign, I tell ye, nobles. Now, who questions?
Who glares upon me now? What! are ye mute?
Leanti. Deign to receive our homage, Sire, and

The undesign'd offence. Your Highness knows
Count D'Alba's mood.

And he knows mine. Well! Well ! Be all these heats forgotten.



Annabel, look forth
Upon this glorious world! Look once again
On our fair Sicily, lit by that sun
Whose level beams do cast a golden shine
On sea, and shore, and city, on the pride
Of bowery groves ; on Etna's smouldering top ;-
Oh bright and glorious world! and thou of all
Created things most glorious, trick'd in light,
As the stars that live in heaven!

Why dost thou gaze
So sadly on me?

Jul. The bright stars, how oft They fall, or seem to fall! The sun-look! look! He sinks, he sets in glory. Blessed orb, Like thee-like thee-Dost thou remember once We sat by the sea shore when all the heaven , And all the ocean seem’d one glow of fire, Red, purple, saffron, melted into one Intense and ardent flame, the doubtful line Where sea and sky should meet was lost in that Continuous brightness; there we sate and talk'd Of the mysterious union that bless’d orb Wrought between earth and heaven, of life and deathHigh mysteries !--and thou didst wish thyself A spirit sailing in that flood of light Straight to the Eternal Gates, didst pray to pass Away in such a glory. Annabel ! Look out upon the burning sky, the sea One lucid ruby — 't is the very

hour! Thou 'lt be a seraph at the Fount of Light Before

Ann. What, must I die? And wilt thou kill me?
Canst thou? Thou cam'st to save-

To save thy honour !
I shall die with thee.

Oh no! no! live! live!
If I must die-oh it is sweet to live,
To breathe, to move, to feel the throbbing blood
Beat in the veins,-to look on such an earth
And such a heaven,—to look on thee !

Young life
Is very dear.

Jul. Would'st live for D'Alba ?


I had forgot. I'll die. Quick! Quick !

One kiss!
Angel, dost thou forgive me?


My sword! – I cannot draw it.

Ann. Now! I'm ready.

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Claudia, Oh! mine old home!
Rienzi. What ails thee, lady-bird ?

Cla. Mine own dear home!
Father, I love not this new state ; these halls,
Where comfort dies in vastness; these trim maids,
Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home!
My quiet pleasant chamber, with the myrtle
Woven round the casement; and the cedar by,
Shading the sun; my garden overgrown
With flowers and herbs, thick set as grass in fields ;
My pretty snow-white doves; my kindest nurse ;
And old Camillo-Oh! mine own dear home!
Rie. Why, simple child, thou hast thine old fond

And good Camillo, and shalt have thy doves,
Thy myrtles, flowers, and cedars; a whole province
Laid in a garden, an' thou wilt. My Claudia,
Hast thou not learnt thy power? Ask orient gems,
Diamonds, and sapphires, in rich caskets, wrought
By curning goldsmiths; sigh for rarest birds
Of farthest Ind, like winged flowers, to flit
Around thy stately bower; and at thy wish,
The precious toys shall wait thee. Old Camillo !
Thou shalt have nobler servants,-emperors, kings,
Electors, princes! not a bachelor
In Christendom but would right proudly kneel
To my fair daughter.

Cla. Oh! mine own dear home!

Rie. Wilt have a list to choose from? Listen, sweet! If the tall cedar, and the branchy myrtle, And the white doves, were tell-tales, I would ask them, Whose was the shadow on the sunny wall ? And if, at eventide they heard not oft

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